Wednesday, November 1, 2017

#BookQW word is second. Excerpt from #Tirgearr #RomanticSuspense

The Book-Quote-Wednesday word is second. Do you enjoy insider conversations? the scene below containing #BookQW (second) is from Unholy Alliance, the 2nd book of the Donahue Cousins series. The discussion below is between lawyer, Grady Fletcher, and his older private investigator, Maeve, a secondary character who brings his attention to a murder similar to the one that framed his client, Tori, the heroine.

The
midmorning sun burned bright when Grady returned from his second Starbucks run.
His cellphone pinged, but he didn’t answer it. Hard enough to juggle two
coffees while opening the door. “You’re here…finally.”

Inside,
Maeve paced about the office. “Yeah, don’t say it.”

He
already did. “Was it work or pleasure?”

“More
like volunteer work. I started a missing person website for Tori’s cousin, Vivienne
Rourke.”

“Aka
Vivienne Valentine.” His ambivalence over Tori’s dedication pressed down on him
like a leaden weight. His plan of action was to do nothing. “Do you know what’s
weird about these websites?”

“I
do. Some people make a strange hobby of following cases like this. Messages
from well-wishers are downright eerie. Religious people send prayers. That’s
nice. Were you thinking something else?”

On
his lap he clenched his hands into fists. “Vivienne might not want to be found.”

“What
do you know that I don’t know?”

“When
I worked Tori’s case, I bumped up on her cousin’s rebellion. She ran away from
the boarding school. Had an older boyfriend. Got into dark stuff. My point? Vivienne
herself is a bad element.”

“—one person intermittently harasses beats,
threatens, abuses, or intimidates the other. If the abuser lets up, the abused
takes it as kindness,” he said but didn’t buy into it.

“Anyway,” Maeve said, “getting
up the website is my excuse for looking like hell.”

She
mustered up her sense of humor. “Other news. Tori drove her pickup to a
cemetery and dug up her gun.” The PI took a moment to explain Tori’s friendship
with the owners of the funeral home. She’d taken up Mick Coley’s offer to hide
a few of her belongings in the smallest casket he had. “I saw her wince with
regret at the insensitive use intended for a precious stillborn. Anyway, it’s
buried above Thomas’s vault and contains her gun and as many beanie babies as
could be stuffed inside.”

“A
gun and beanie babies, crazy combination.” A red flag went up over the gun, but
he ignored it. He thrust a coffee cup at Maeve, keeping the other for himself. “Let’s
start again. Good morning.”

“Good
morning, Grady. Say hello to our new case.” Maeve slapped down paperwork, the
beginnings of a new murder book. His private investigator had seen it all. Homicides,
suicides, assaults, and no amount of horror surprised her.

He
slid onto his chair in front of crime photos. “This can’t be.” His heart pounded
like a wild animal bursting to be free. “Victim has broken teeth, lodged in her
throat.”

“The
pattern mirrors Irene Brennan.” She scowled.

“Who’s
our new client?”

“A
handyman. Samuel Peterson repaired a leaky toilet at the Winter’s home
yesterday afternoon. He left prior to the murder of Rose Winter.”

“A
rose on ice,” he said, referring to this morning’s headline on the front page
of the Los Angeles Globe. The body of
the victim, found on her white marble floor, lay at an odd angle, arms and legs
flung out like Raggedy Ann. Her shoulder length hair of dyed burgundy
surrounded her head in a puddle of her own blood and scattered long-stem roses.
“Rose Winter’s features were smashed.”

“Beaten
to a pulp,” Maeve said.

“Her
husband, Dr. Joseph Winter, is missing.” Joseph Winter, Ph.D. taught a class in
urban planting at Cal State Long Beach, but more importantly conducted research
for the department of agriculture. “Dr. Winter and his laptop hold secrets
vital to national security.”

“Maybe
Rose Winter held back his location.” She removed the lid and sipped coffee from
the cup.

He
sank in his chair staring at the white board where she scrawled key events.

“Yes,
and then Sam Peterson left.” As if it were an everyday occurrence, Maeve adjusted
the purple scarf around her neck. “Mrs. Peterson phoned us. Assured me her
husband has no hidden talents. Sam isn’t a secret novelist or computer nerd. He’s
a struggling black handyman supporting a family of four.”

A
text message pinged again. This time he read it aloud. “Tori Morningstar. Says
her food truck is open for business.”

“Great,
team up. You’re both on Seamus McGinn’s tail.” Maeve gathered her purse and two
four-inch binders.

“You’ve
got Irene Brennan and Rose Winter in those murder books. Off getting a warrant?”

“I
am. When victims struggle for their lives, they put talons out. Scratch their
assailants. I want to compare tissue caught under their fingernails.”

He
nodded his approval. “Could be a match.” Medical examiners clipped a victim’s
nails to see if DNA from trapped tissue matched any sample in the DNA database.
Even without one, a new technique known as phenotyping revealed the assailant’s
eye, skin, and hair color. “All is good for Samuel Peterson.”

“At
Tori’s truck, go light on the fried stuff.” She winked and lugged notebooks to
the door.

“And
you go light on those jaded detectives.”

“Don’t
be ridiculous. I make them care.” She elbowed her way through the door.

His
temples throbbed. Taking stock of the kidnapping of Dr. Winter and the national
security risk it entailed, he phoned his cousin, Finn, and explained the case
against his client.

“You’re
up against organized crime,” Finn said. “Sucks when you realize how small and
defenseless you are.”

“Wormhole.”
Ah, the ties that bind. “Will you pretty please give up your contact at the FBI?”
Grady gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles ached.

“You
are one lucky asshat,” Finn gloated. “I’ll phone Gary Guhleman, tell him you’ll
be in touch. You’ll like him. He’s an amped up hound dog. Hang up. I’ll text
you his number.”

“Don’t
face-plant on goose poop.” Grady chuckled at the memory, saved the agent’s
number, and then texted it to Maeve with the message they’d hooked up with FBI Agent
Gary Guhleman.

Next,
he texted Tori. “I’m out the door, walking to your truck.” It took superhuman
power not to ask her out. His dick knew she appealed to him. Down, boy. It’s good
I’m wearing loose pants. She’s a client, and this isn’t what he was here for. Attracted
and fear of the attraction doubled his ability to be a jerk.

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About Me

I do my best to blend fast-paced action with personal struggles and tender romance. Romantic suspense is my genre, and I write for Tirgearr Publishing in Ireland. Deadly Alliance has a release date of February 2016. I'm writing the sequel, Alliance of Liars.